'' Repeating History ''

'' Nightmare ''

.

Summary:

A very short and angsty chapter in which Bowie experiences a vivid hallucination, or possibly an intense nightmare, in which a visage of their past comes to haunt them. Forcing them to admit to a wrongdoing of their past.

Notes:

Trigger Warning for some themes that may be a bit sensitive to some readers, including: Forced silencing, being forcibly pinned down, victim blaming, self blame, childhood trauma, implied abuse, implied sexual abuse

.

Bowie had been listening intently to the sound of his footsteps moving around the house. Growing concerned when they no longer hear him, without hearing the door open and shut. Their paranoia running rampant as they believe he's going to sneak back up the hall and kill them. As suspicious as he would appear should he do so. When they finally hear him again, nowhere near their door, they'd relax. Feeling relieved once he's gone.

They slink out of bed, one hand tracing the wall as they move through their dark apartment to the door. Locking it, they turn around to go back up the hall, but pause.

A cold chill runs down their neck. Accompanied by thick droplets of sweat. Soaking their neck and face. Running down their back in rivulets. Dark eyes looking forward into their dark, barely moonlit living room, seeing the tall figure staring back at them, pin pricks of light reflecting back from the void, aimed right at them.

Their breathing is deep. Steady. The thing that stares back at them matches them. Low gurgles and wheezes leaving its throat with every inhale and exhale from its rotting lungs.

Was this real? Were they hallucinating? They had to be hallucinating. Or better yet, dreaming. They take a step forward, to their left, toward the hall that goes to their bedroom. The creature takes a step forward, to its right, toward them. Mirroring. Mocking. Taunting them. Its legs are longer. It's much larger. If they run, it will catch them. Regardless of whether or not it's copying their movements.

But they have to try.

They make a break for it, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor hard, feeling the white crusted footprints left behind by walking through the house in their boots earlier, rough under their feet as they run. Slamming full force into the doorframe with their left shoulder as they enter their bedroom, they lunge forward, spinning around to slam the door shut on the monster that had been following them.

Its hand catches the door, stopping them in their tracks. Wide eyed, gaze glued to the floor between their feet and the beasts massive hooves. They can feel its hot, ragged breaths on their face. Blowing the hair slightly away from their sweat soaked forehead as they stand there, trembling, too scared to move.

"You're avoiding eye contact." It says, voice distorted, but very clearly belonging to the psychiatrist they had just locked outside. Unless they hadn't. Unless this was him. His true form. Those hands that caress them in the dark, finally becoming more than hands.

"Your." They'd start, swallowing hard, trying not to vomit.
"Your fur looks. Soft. I'd rather not ruin it by vomiting on you." They reply in a soft whisper. Loosely recreating their interaction with the man earlier.

Their hands slowly slip from the door, and they turn their back on him, staggering as they move toward their bed, legs becoming jello.

"I see." It replies, stepping in behind them and shutting the door. Making them feel trapped. Hannibal hadn't shut the door earlier. Nor when he left now.

Their eyes widen in horror and they turn around swiftly, only to have a massive, clawed hand slammed down over their mouth, shoving them head first onto the bed as they kick and fight against this thing. Tears rolling down their cheeks as they now know who this thing represents. A specter from their past, haunting them in the present.

"Why did you leave me, Bowie." It growls, voice warping and distorting further. They hardly remember what he sounds like anymore, but they know who he is.

"It's all your fault. You're the reason things are falling apart. It's all your fault." He growls, face growing close to theirs, and they recognize him quite clearly now. Even with his face rotting and falling off.

They screw their eyes shut, shaking their head violently, unable to escape his grasp.
"All your fault." He repeats, making Bowie wail loudly with fear and emotional distress, clawing his wrist trying to escape.

"All your fault. All your fault. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT. YOUR FAULT. YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT." He chants, voice becoming a choir of distorted projections of Bowie's childhood trauma, different people they felt they'd failed over the years. People who were either not around anymore or who they rarely saw.

They'd sob, slowly ending their struggle, just laying on the bed beneath this manifestation of their guilt, sobbing softly into his rotting hand, body twitching and shuddering, hiccuping from each sob.

The thing pulls its hand away slowly, just leaning over them now, breath like death washing over their face as he sighs deeply.

"You understand now, don't you, Bowie?" He asks, voice a disappointed whisper.

They'd nod slowly, sniffling and sobbing still, crawling further onto their bed. He caresses their spine with one, long claw. Watching them curl up under their blankets. He pets their head.

"Good. Then admit to what you did." He encourages, his words coming out in a threatening hiss.

"I." They began, though trailing off, a thick burning sensation in their throat choking back their words, creating a plug which prevented them from releasing. The pressure grew painful before they let out a choked sob.

"I killed you!" They exclaim, screwing their eyes shut and curling up tighter.

And then all at once. They were made aware of the deathly still air around them. A silence like nothing else surrounding them. What had happened?

They slowly pull themselves from their blankets, looking around in confusion. It was pitch black. Why was it so quiet? Even the ambient buzz of electronics working was absent from the night now.

They slink out of bed cautiously, feeling around until they find their phone on the nightstand. Turning it on, they were blinded by the brightness being left so high. After squinting through the pain to turn it down, they see the time reads; 4:27.
Dragging their gaze to the upper right corner of their screen, they see they have no wifi connection, and their battery is sitting at 67%. Great. Now they understood what the issue was. Their power had gone out.

They knew they paid the electricity bill, so there was no real reason for it to be off unless the blackout extended to more homes than their own.

They'd sigh deeply with frustration and plug their phone into the charger before powering it off completely. Prepared for whether the power comes back on or not.

With that, they crawl back into bed to sleep the rest of the night away.